


Widower

by 7PhoenixAshes



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Past Character Death, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PhoenixAshes/pseuds/7PhoenixAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He dreams of her sometimes.  Not how she left—frail, sickly, thin, spitting red blood into his hands—but strong, rosy-cheeked, smiling with all her heart and soul."</p>
<p>100-word drabble series.  </p>
<p>Originally posted in October 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Widower

* * *

 

I. Spring

Laying down his pen, he turns his face to the window. It is open, and the warm breeze ghosts in, carrying with it the scent of cherry blossoms.

She had loved spring.

He remembers her standing in the garden, arms spread as if flying, her smile stretching across her whole face, then spreading onto his.

He remembers the warm nights, her fingers tangled in his long black hair as they lay in each other’s arms.

He remembers her, but the memory is tattered around the edges. Faded, like an old photograph, blurry with years.

The day no longer seems warm.

* * *

 

II.  Waiting

It was said that when the dead die, they are reborn in the world of the living. Souls reborn to new lives, their old memories and identities dissolving like mist in sunlight.

Perhaps one day he would see her again, when she returned, as all mortal beings must do.

Perhaps she would have a different face. Perhaps she would not remember him.

Perhaps she would have another lover.

Children. Tears. Joy. Sorrow. Laughter.

A shining new life he had not touched and would never touch.

He hoped she would have the same smile. That would be enough.

He’d be waiting.  

* * *

 

 

III. Sister

She doesn’t realize how much she resembles her sister. The same wide eyes, the same dark hair, the same walk. Sometimes, he sees her out of the corner of his eye and starts, and another’s name half-falls from his lips, melting into silence as the sudden wild hope vanishes as quickly as it came.

Sometimes, he can’t stand to see her. She reminds him too much of what is lost.

But Rukia is not her. She is not Hisana. He sometimes remembers this, and tries to be kind.

But he still glimpses her and calls her by her sister’s name.

* * *

 

IV. Ashes

The golden pyre had burned bright and clear, the dark smoke a dull pillar to hold up the night. The flames had been like the Phoenix’s fire, a fire to rebirth the soul.

It was custom never to mourn at a funeral. Why lament the return of the dead to the living world?

And so he had shed no tears.

Standing in the garden at sunrise, he had held out a fistful of ashes to the wind. And the wind had answered, blowing gray dust, memories, grief, and diamond drops of salt water into the shining sky.

She was gone.  

* * *

 

 

V. Dreams

He dreams of her sometimes. Not how she left--frail, sickly, thin, spitting red blood into his hands—but strong, rosy-cheeked, smiling with all her heart and soul.

Smiling with clear eyes of forget-me-not blue.

His family tells him again to find a new wife. A strong wife, a noble-blooded wife, a wife worthy of the name Kuchiki. He pretends to understand, and greets each new candidate with polite words and grace and vague promises.

And her eyes still haunt his dreams. Still smiling, but perhaps a little sad. For she knows, and he knows, there shall be no other.

* * *

 

VI. Star

He stands alone in the garden, staring up at the spangled blackness. Fifty springs have now passed since she clutched his hand and whispered her last farewell.

The world of the dead and the world of the living share the same sky. This, he knows.

Perhaps, somewhere beyond his sight, a middle-aged woman with wide blue eyes will look out her kitchen window into the city-dimmed night. Perhaps, for the briefest of instants, their eyes will meet on the same bright star.

Until the dark clouds roll in and rain begins to fall, his gaze remains fixed upon the heavens.

* * *

 

VII. Precious

He sits beneath the tree, enjoying the sun’s warmth, legs stretched out before him. This tree, out of all the thousands of trees that ring the lake, is precious to him.

The reason is a secret now known only to him. Because it had been a silly thing to do to a tree. A silly, peasant thing to do, a thing that had taken her hours to convince him was absolutely necessary.

Carved into the bark with an awkwardly-wielded zanpakuto is a pair of names, a heart, and a message.

He reaches over his shoulder to touch it.

“Together forever.”


End file.
